A Thousand Shades Of Black
by Taluliaka
Summary: Black has become his whole world. His guns become the closest things to eyes he will ever possess. But he won't give up and die. After all, there are a thousand shades of black. ON HIATUS


**A Thousand Shades Of Black**

**Author:** _Taluliaka_

**Summary: **_I didn't feel it was fair leaving everyone's favourite CIA agent dying on a Mexican street. I'm sure you'll agree. This will probably expand into a plotline. I have some ideas, some more crazy than others…_

**Disclaimer: **_I do not own Once Upon A Time In Mexico, its predecessors and its characters. I wouldn't mind El's guitar/machine gun/rocket launcher though!_

* * *

**Chapter 1: Another Chance**

Sands was having a shitty day.

A _very_ shitty day, in fact.

And not just because he had just had his eyes ripped out.

It was partially because his own organisation had left him to die. Partially because that bitch Ajedrez had died so quickly when he had wanted to drag out her death a bit longer. And partially because he was dying for a smoke.

Footsteps crunched on broken glass and Sands turned his head towards the sound before remembering that he had no eyes. The sheer irony hit him all at once and the agent threw his head back and laughed. Laughed until his two busted legs gave out and he landed on his ass on the sidewalk.

The footsteps halted uncertainly and a deep voice cracked the hazy silence of the street.

_"Eres todo derecho, señor?"_

Sands fumbled on the ground for a second, before his fingers closed around that goddamn cell phone. He chucked it as hard as he could in the direction of the worried local.

"Fuck off, you asswipe bastardising fuckmook!"

The footsteps retreated and Sands rested his head against the warm bricks, smirking slightly. Was bastardising even a word? The man would probably run all the way to the outskirts of this pathetic little town, yelling there was some poor _blanco_ bastard with no eyes who'd completely lost it.

Maybe he should get up. Bracing himself on both gloved hands, he shifted his legs. Immediately white-hot pain flooded through him, so bright he could almost swear he could see the colours. Choking back a scream, he stopped trying, relinquishing the few inches he'd managed to force himself up on the wall. Or maybe he could just sit here and wait for Chiclet to return.

Not that he would of course. By now the boy had probably been gunned down by cartel or been run over by some crazy-ass driver. _Or maybe he's just gotten as far away from the psychotic agent with no eyes and a death wish as possible._

Well maybe Ramirez would have a sudden attack of conscience and return to…what? Shoot him in the head? Insult him a bit more? God save him from the ex-agent's wit.

Especially that line he'd come up with earlier.

_See you later._

Fucking hilarious………

Then time shifted and blurred away from him. He could feel the wall at his back grow colder as the sun drifted overhead, could hear the wind moaning as it stirred up thick, choking dust and a second later feel the dust settling over his clothes and drying out his throat until he coughed enough to bring up his guts. The blackness was overwhelming and Sands shivered.

He had never been cold in Mexico before.

Nearby an engine hacked itself to a shuddering start. Vaguely Sands wondered whether Barillo had succeeded in his coup d'etat. Not that he really gave a shit. But it was interesting to imagine that balance had been restored. But he doubted the people were going to be very happy with their new leader. Especially if they wanted to put him on their travel brochure. Sands couldn't remember if he'd ever seen a more ugly motherfucker in his entire life.

And if that was the case, then trigger-happy cartel would be wandering the streets looking for someone to use as target practise.

Speaking of such delicate matters, where the fuck were his guns? He located the two in his shoulder holsters with his good arm but the other holsters were empty. The others were probably lying on the street somewhere. And he sure as hell wasn't going to crawl around and look for the damn things.

Yanking out one of the guns, he ran one hand up its length, then settled it against his chest, finger around the trigger lightly. Anyone walking past would see the gun and maybe think twice about mugging him. Or maybe they would avoid the two dried trails of blood that probably made him look like something out a horror movie.

Sands drifted again, trying to ignore the weight of the sunglasses that were cutting into his face.

* * *

Jorge was slowly and steadily getting pissed off.

He'd been on his way to a bar to knock back as many drinks as humanely possible, to congratulate himself on avenging his partner's death….and get the grotesque image of the mutilated CIA agent out of his head. Sure, Sands was a mean bastard but surely he wasn't _that_ bad. Even Doctor Guevara hadn't deserved having his eyes ripped out….but then again, he had probably done it to Sands in the first place.

All these deep thoughts were making him depressingly sober.

It seemed the small number of men in the bar were staring at him. For a moment Jorge stared back in confusion, wondering idiotically for a minute if he had something on his face or clothes.

Then he turned and saw the boy he had last seen talking to Sands. The boy was leaping around trying to get his attention, yelling something at him through the thick glass. With morbid curiosity, Jorge heaved his carcass out of the chair and went outside.

The boy was on him in an instant, babbling in Spanish, pulling on his hand.

_"Señor! Señor! Venido rápidamente!"_

Jorge allowed himself to be dragged off by the youth, regretting the amount of alcohol he'd consumed with every hasty step.

A man was standing on the street outside, holding a leather bag and looking rather confused. A doctor by his appearance, a fighter for his country by his gun. He nodded to Jorge as he strode after the _chicle_ boy. The doctor obviously believed Jorge to be either the boy's father or an associate of the patient they were going to, for he paid very little attention to him and walked beside the boy, listening as he babbled. Only once did he comment, raising one bushy eyebrow and looking at Jorge for confirmation.

_"Pistolero?"_

_"Sí, sí!"_

The boy nodded his head vigorously.

As they headed back down towards where Sands was, Jorge felt a stab of irritation. He was no friend of the man and had no reason to help him. He felt the nice mellow buzz leaving him with every step he took away from the bar.

Contemplating deserting the expedition, Jorge didn't notice the presence of the doctor until he spoke.

"_Señor_, if the boy has informed me correctly, then you have a connection with this man?"

Jorge looked at the dark figure slumped on the sidewalk, a gun resting on his chest, the metal glinting every time he breathed. "Sands. His name is Sands."

* * *

Well, this had to be one of the most supremely awkward situations of his life. Going to tell a recently blinded man that they needed to clean out the hollow spaces where his eyeballs had once resided. A recently blinded CIA agent that just happened to be psychotic and possess at least two guns.

"Sands?"

Agent Sands didn't look up.

_It's not like there's any point looking. Looking is normally reserved for people who can see._

Mentally slapping himself, Jorge tried again, keeping one eye on the trigger of the nearest gun.

"Sands, it's Jorge. I…"

"Fuck off."

Jorge Ramirez had always had a problem with his temper.

_Well if that's how you're gonna be then I won't save your pathetic ass._

"Ask me nicely."

Baiting a blind man wasn't nice, but when that blind man was Sands….He just couldn't keep his mouth shut.

Apparently it was the correct thing to say though because Sands raised his head and cocked it slightly. A smile curved onto his cracked lips.

"Fuck off, _bitch_."

Jorge had already forgotten what an annoying son of a bitch Sands could be. But then, you couldn't blame him for being pissed off. If someone had ripped out _his_ eyeballs he wouldn't have been too co-operative either.

However, he didn't have enough patience or empathy to wait until Sands had passed out or agreed. He reached down to haul the agent upright and stumbled back when a shot went off.

The gun in Sand's hand was aimed straight at him. Shit, he was quick. That shot had missed by an inch. But not even the shock of nearly being shot unerved Jorge as much as Sand's voice.

"_Don't touch me, Ramirez_." The words were drawled out slowly, calmly. A hint of insanity lingered in them.

"The kid brought a doctor."

This seemed to calm Sands a bit and with no further violent motions he allowed the other agent to drag him to his feet. Jorge waved the doctor and the boy over.

There was no warning for what Sands did next. One instant he was looking over at the doctor's reaction to Sands and the next he was yelling and holding his shoulder as blood seeped from it.

Brandishing both guns, the CIA agent staggered away onto the road, firing randomly. The doctor, the boy and Jorge hit the ground almost at the same moment, seeking cover.

"Keep the fuck away from me, you bastards! Keep the fuck away!"

More bullets howled overhead as the doctor raised himself, taking cover in a doorway and aimed his own gun at Sands. Jorge noted how precise the shot was that ripped a hole in the dark vest and spouted blood. With a pained gasp, Sands fell to his knees, his guns clattering to the ground.

The doctor covered the ground in three strides, snatching up one of the discarded guns and pistol-whipping Sands with it. Without a sound the agent finally collapsed and the doctor, catching him,laid him down almost tenderly, taking care not to knock off the sunglasses.

Realising that Jorge was staring at him in astonishment, the doctor smiled.

"This isn't the first rowdy patient I've had."

As they lifted the limp body, Jorge grunted, "Do you deal with them in the same way?"

The other man laughed. "Sometimes."

"Shit."

The boy hovered beside them, eyes wide with worry, lingering even after the doctor dismissed him with a curt, "Go home, boy."

The first stars appeared in the sky overhead as the doctor turned to Jorge with innocent curiosity.

"So where's your car?"

Groaning internally, Jorge gave directions, wishing he could drop Sands and go back to drink himself into oblivion.

What the fuck was the point of saving a psychotic guy anyway?

_Repaying debts_, he reminded himself. _Doctor Guevara in exchange for Sand's life._

Of course he would have to make another story to tell Sands if he lived. If he ever told the truth, the asshole would probably laugh. And then shoot him.

**Translations:**

_Eres todo derecho?- _Are you all right?

_Venido rápidamente!- _Come quickly!

_Pistolero- _Gunman

**Please review!**


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